


all you can do

by kashxy



Series: it’s easy to fool people when they’re already falling themselves [1]
Category: Spider-Man: Far From Home
Genre: Abuse of Power, Alcohol Facilitated Sexual Assault, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Manipulation, Psychological Manipulation, Quentin Beck is Not a Good Guy, Sexual Assault, Unconsensual Sexual Acts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 02:17:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,904
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20127730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kashxy/pseuds/kashxy
Summary: the way quentin speaks is in such a set manner that peter finds himself unable to say anything other than yes to him.there’s nothing other than agreeing with him.





	all you can do

**Author's Note:**

> trigger warning for sexual assault of a minor. head the warnings.

somewhere, far away from the stingy, rundown construction site masqueraded as a bar, peter’s parker’s school friends relax in an expensive hotel, and smile. they’re safe, and the elementals pose no threat to them anymore.

for this reason alone, peter doesn’t protest when quentin orders two beers instead of one. the words ‘_i’m not twenty one_’ somehow fail to leave his mouth when the beers multiply, and he doesn’t question when the beers turn into shots. they don’t taste very nice, but beck nonchalantly reminds him that ‘_everyone drinks. c’mon, pete, stop being so frigid.’ _he continues to drink through the pain, and then somehow he’s spilling out every agony he holds deep inside him to this older, unfamiliar man.

even when his spider senses tell him to stop. 

“all right, kid.” quentin laughs, and pulls the empty shot glass away from peter’s lips. he lingers a moment too long, eyes hard to read as they travel down to peter’s lips. “time to cut you off.” 

peter whines, and slumps forward on his hand, feeling quentin catch him before he has chance to topple off the chair. when peter looks up, he’s met with the older man’s coarse beard, and he feels tears prick in his eyes before he can stop them. 

“kid?” quentin asks.

the nickname only panics peter further, and he lets his new ‘mentor’ pull him off the chair and into his strong arms. 

he smells sweet, and crisp, like strawberries and shower gel. his skin is rough to the touch when peter begins to cry into his neck, babbling apologies as he shifts uncomfortably on his feet. 

“hey, hey. what’s wrong?” 

peter can’t stutter anything out, but he shakes his head and pulls his arms further around beck. the older man shifts, his legs opening slightly to accommodate peter’s trembling body. 

“is this about tony?” 

the tone that he speaks in is soft, but it still strikes peter like a knife to the heart. he pushes himself further into quentin, drunkenly clambering into his lap with another round of sobs. perhaps it’s inappropriate, but quentin is so much like tony that he holds him as close as possible, shaking and stuttering against the older man’s body. he wraps his strong hands underneath peter’s thighs and suddenly, he’s weak. 

whether it’s the alcohol, or the tears, or the feeling of someone _finally_ touching him, he’s not sure, but he’s whining and squirming because his body just feels _wrong_. like no matter how hard he tries, he’ll never be able to fill the empty hole tony left when he died. it’s felt off ever since then, and he’s only ever had may’s reassuring, albeit, small hugs to comfort him. 

“alright, kid. i think we need to get you home.” 

peter doesn’t protest when quentin gently pats him off of his lap; the older man wraps a strong, protective arm around peter’s shoulder and under his armpit, holding him up while his knees buckle under him. he can barely walk, but he shuffles out of the door, and they turn to the left. 

after five minutes of stumbling and giggling, they reach the end of the dimly lit street, and into an even darker alley, peter frowns, nervous even in his drunken state. he clumsily lifts his head to see quentin already staring down at him, expression vacant yet rich. 

“m-my hotel. that way.” he points behind him, turning his head awkwardly. 

“this is a shortcut.” quentin replies easily, keeping his steady hands on peter’s body. they’ve slowed down now, walking quietly around a corner and past a dumpster. “we’ll be there soon.” 

peter pulls at his jacket, suddenly faint and warm. he feels a wave of heat wash over him, and he pulls to a stop, face flush and sweaty. he slumps against the wall, missing the way quentin barricades him with his arms. 

“you’re hot.” quentin states. 

it’s true. the older man is already wiping the sweat off of peter’s forehead, blowing gently on his face to keep him cool. peter all but moans at the feeling, chasing after the breeze, and he watches quentin’s eyes flicker down. they twitch once, before he locks them again with peter’s own, darker and filled with something that makes peter flinch. 

“here. i’ll help you cool down.” 

quentin moves his hands to peter’s shoulders, pulling the jacket down his arms until it falls at his feet. he moves onto the hem of his t-shirt, and peter’s already hurriedly undoing his jeans, kicking them off while quentin pulls his shirt off. his body feels like it’s on fire, but the cool breeze that follows his undressing is welcome and blissful. 

“there. that’s better, isn’t it?” 

when quentin moves closer and pushes his knee between peter’s thighs, the teenager tilts his head in confusion.

he can barely see, and his mind’s working in a sluggish manner that slows down his every move, but he doesn’t miss the way the older man’s knee is gently rolling against his crotch. quentin’s face remained vacant, bored and expectant as he watches peter’s brain work like a slow clock. 

he whines in uncertainty, reeling away from the uncomfortable feeling; even through the drunken haze, he can tell something’s wrong.

he’s pushing clumsily at quentin’s chest when the man stops, and leans in so his breath is hot against peter’s ear. 

“are you sure you don’t want this? i’ll stop right now.” 

as he speaks, he moves his cheek against peter’s, still rolling his knee between the teenagers thighs, and rubs the scruff of his beard on the milky skin beneath it. he brings peter’s shaky hands to his face, lets him slowly, unwillingly, rub his fingers on the hair below his mouth. 

he smells hot, like sweat and desire, and peter winces as fingers trail gently down his side, sliding across the sensitive nerves at the dip in his hip, right where his legs meet his torso. he twitches away from it, though the wall quentin makes with his arms stops him from moving further than an inch. 

“you don’t want me to stop.” 

it’s said matter-o-factly, and peter can’t bring the denial out through his lips; he feels stupid, frozen in fear. he stays silent, still squirming under quentin’s uncomfortable stare. 

“you’re so touch starved, aren’t you?” he murmurs, burying his face in peter’s neck. he bites at the skin, relishing in the uncomfortable gasps the teenager makes. “this feels good. you want to carry on.” 

when quentin instructs him to move his own hips against the older man’s knees, he protests. he feels the guilt wash over him immediately when quentin pulls back, hurt written all over his features. 

he’s attractive, sure, but peter wouldn’t willingly be with him. quentin’s twice his age, as attractive as he may be, and besides, they were _teammates_. if nick fury found out his two best chances at saving the world were both distracted by each other, what would he say? peter didn’t want to find out. 

“you want to disappoint me?” quentin says, his voice dripping in hurt and rejection. he moves, only slightly, and peter chases him, drowning in the guilt of disappointing the man. 

he rolls his hips up against quentin’s clothed leg, breathless and embarrassed. he feels sick, so uncomfortable and overwhelmed with confusion. how must he look now? he’s panting, rolling his hips out of pure fear, jaw unhinged as tears roll down his cheeks. 

he is, quite frankly, terrified. terrified of what quentin will do if he stops. terrified of how he’ll feel if he carries on. 

terrified of what mr. stark would say.

it feels odd, and peter can’t stop even when quentin gently strokes the side of his face, whispering praises and insults by the dozen. he winces at each one, face a vision of pure agony as he tries to distinguish whether he’s supposed to feel pleasure or pain. he can’t even tell which is which at this point. 

through his drunken haze, he can’t remember for the life of him why he isn’t supposed to enjoy this, but he finds himself throwing his head back and moving his hips quicker. it’s not that it feels good, per say, but quentin’s touching him like he’s china, and no one’s ever been so careful with him before. 

“you’re so stupid. so gullible.” quentin accentuates his sentence by pressing his soft lips against peter’s cheek, his eyes watching as the teenager squirms against his knee, cloudy eyes glassy and unfocused as he whines.

“stupid, stupid boy.” 

tears are falling freely now, streaming down peter’s face like a hot, angry stream. he feels embarrassed, but he can’t bring himself to stop, and he fights within himself to understand why. the tears don’t stop, and quentin doesn’t acknowledge them. 

“i wish you could see yourself,” quentin breathes, soft, with a hint of bitterness. “you’re so easy. so gorgeous.” 

peter jolts and finally has the sense to stop his hips rolling. he falls back, mouth open, but quentin pushes his knee further until it’s touching the wall, hoisting peter up against it, his short legs dangling on either side of quentin’s thick thigh. 

“carry on.” 

its a demand, peter can tell, but he whines and tries to wriggle his way out of the hold quentin has over him. still, the man is tall, and strong, and with alcohol coursing through his veins, peter’s as weak as he was before the spider bite.

when he moans again, and weakly pushes at quentin’s chest, the older man growls and grabs both of his wrists in one, large hand, pushing them down until they’re bound together near his crotch. 

“i said, carry on.” 

there’s a certain glimmer in his eyes that has peter quickly rutting his hips again on his thigh, brokenly whining despite the tears streaming down his face. he knows now, he doesn’t want this. he feels dirty, uncomfortable, and quentin is _scaring him. _

“it must be so difficult.” the man continues, idly toying with peter’s hair. his tone is vacant, almost bored, as he lazily watches peter writhing against his leg. “trying to fill tony’s shoes. i bet you miss him.” 

peter cries out, heart aching at the mention of his dead mentor. his hips still, but quentin raises an eyebrow, hand sneaking towards his back pocket and, _fuck_, peter doesn’t want to find out what’s in it. 

“you’re only a child. still a baby.” he muses, shrugging slightly. “you can’t handle the responsibility.” 

peter sobs, throwing his head back into the wall. he feels dizzy, unsure of whether it’s the alcohol or the sheer confusion his senses are receiving right now. quentin’s not amused, and when peter accidentally brushes his knee against his crotch, he finds it not even half hard. 

“i c-can’t.” he hiccups, speaking for what seems like the first time in ages. his voice is rough, but he can’t find it in himself to feel embarrassed; he’s alone, and he’s scared. 

“oh, it’s okay, you stupid boy.” quentin soothes, gentle hands running through peter’s hair. they tug in the right places, softly, like he’s afraid of hurting him. 

peter almost scoffs. 

“it’s okay.” 

his hands are trailing over peter’s body, and it’s only now that he realises he’s naked besides his boxers, and the shivers take over his body like he’s paralysed. his hips stop rutting, and he falls weak beside quentin’s arms, hot and sweaty yet unimaginably cold without his clothes. 

quentin brings his arms down, scooping them under peter’s thighs. he knows he’s light, spider dna and all, but god...quentin picks him up like he’s a rag doll, supporting him with one hand while he leans in closer to the wall. when he sets him down again, peter has to fight the instinct to wrap his legs around quentin’s waist. instead, he lets them fall loosely to the side, scraping the older man’s knee as peter cries. 

“it’s too much of a responsibility for you.”

quentin removes one of his hands, balancing peter solely on his knee, and gently strokes his hair with it. despite the uncomfortable feeling of his legs spread right on top of the man’s thigh, he instinctively leans into the soft touch, craving anything gentle he can get.

“tony left you something you’re not ready for. it scares you.”

peter starts to cry harder when quentin pushes his thigh up slightly, pressing into his crotch despite peter’s squirming. he shushes him quickly, leaning into his neck to gently rub the scruff of his beard against peter’s jawline. the feeling is rough but gentle, and peter writhes against the conflicting sensation. 

“you can’t handle it.” 

he continues, seemingly oblivious to how his words cut through peter like a knife to warm butter. it leaves him dripping blood, a mess of tears and stained agony. 

peter’s mouth strains open, clumsily drooling despite the clenching in his stomach. he screams silently, pushing back into quentin as his back arches off the wall. the older man laughs, cruel and unforgiving as his eyes wander over peter’s twitching body. the small pinch he gives to peter’s upper thigh has the teenager hurriedly moving his hips, unrhythmic and clumsy as new tears form in his swollen eyes. 

“you can’t control EDITH.” he continues with a raised eyebrow. “it needs to go to someone more experienced.” 

peter nods, too dazed and intoxicated to understand what quentin’s saying. he’s moving his hips faster, panting and straining his head back despite how wrong he knows this all feels. 

“it should go to a _real_ superhero. don’t you agree?” 

peter nods again, twitching away as quentin trails his fingers around the sensitive nerves atop his skin. 

he’s hot all over again, head back against the wall to expose as much of his bare skin to the breeze as possible. quentin leans in closer, his lips barely scraping peter’s; when he speaks, they share air, and the thought is as compunctious as peter would have hoped it would be. 

“i’ll take them off you.” 

peter stills, suddenly acutely aware of the fact that quentin’s fingers are trailing closer to his crotch as they move in tiny circles. he whimpers, looking straight up in alarm, and is only met with beck’s bored, unimpressed gaze. 

“they’ll look good. you agree?” 

peter opens his mouth to say no, to stop, but it’s like his lips have been sealed shut. quentin hovers above him, a smirk gracing his face even in the dark. 

“st-stop.” he manages to stutter out as quentin drops him gently to the ground, and bends down to retrieve the only thing mr. stark left for him. 

“you want me to stop?” quentin says, looming back in on peter. instinctively, he flinches, and cowers into the wall. “are you sure? you think you can handle this? your friends nearly died because of you. tony stark, died because of you. how many people have to die before you realise you just aren’t good enough?” 

peter blinks. and blinks again. it’s all he can do before his breathing is stuttering, coming out in choked, pathetic gasps as he heaves through the pain. from above him, beck’s expression doesn’t change, and peter’s vision swims when he looks up. 

quentin’s wearing the glasses, and he looks oddly familiar. sure, peter can’t really see, but the face structure is the same, and the beard’s the same. the only thing that makes him flinch, is the blue eyes piercing into him when he looks up. 

“are you going to let other people die? are you going to let _me_ die?” 

he says the last bit quietly, hushing his voice quieter as he leans into peter. he’s so close that peter can smell the cologne drifting off of him, crisp and refreshing against his tear stained face. 

“all you have to do is transfer them to me, pete.” 

peter’s face contorts, and quentin takes it as an opportunity to press his body into the teenager’s, rolling his hips up to meet peter’s. the smaller boy gasps and looks up, tears already pooling in his eyes. he lets out a choked sob, and feebly pushes his small hands at quentin’s broad chest. it’s almost laughable. 

“say it.” quentin whispers, breath hot against peter’s neck. he peppers kisses up his jawline, moving his hips around peter’s body like he’s a flat surface made to be used. the thought makes peter shudder in disgust. 

“say it.” 

“EDITH,” he chokes out, ungratefully aware of quentin’s teeth nipping at his ear. “transfer your controls to-to quentin beck.” 

“peter, are you sure?” 

quentin makes a small noise, kissing peter softly on the neck before pulling back. he smiles and leans back slightly, the silent promise that he’ll leave if peter continues. while he’s slightly more sober, he’d still rather walk home black out drunk than spend any longer with quentin beck.

“don’t let me die, too.” 

“yes,” peter says, quickly, and uncertainly. “yes, transfer.” 

EDITH makes a small sound, and peter watches as the lights on quentin’s glasses illuminate. in the dark, he can see the man’s eyes clearly, and he winces at how tightly they’re set. he looks down, and smiles at peter wholly, stepping back, just like he’d promised. 

“got it. thanks, kid.” 

when he leaves, peter doesn’t try to follow. he sits, in the alleyway, on top of an old cardboard box, and cries. 

it’s all he can do. 


End file.
